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<title>It Doesn't Matter What The Wind Wants by propheticfire</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22425937">It Doesn't Matter What The Wind Wants</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/propheticfire/pseuds/propheticfire'>propheticfire</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Dragon Prince (Cartoon)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Magic, Destiny, Gen, Mini Fic, nothing graphic; just Ziard is still dead, passing the torch</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-01-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-01-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 18:20:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>538</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22425937</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/propheticfire/pseuds/propheticfire</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>She’s watching from the tower when it happens. On the mountain peak in the distance, a brief, brilliant flash of fire. The shape of something large flying up into the clouds. And she knows.</p><p>Her brother is gone.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>It Doesn't Matter What The Wind Wants</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I started wondering what happened to Ziard's staff immediately after his confrontation with Sol Regem, and this was born.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She’s watching from the tower when it happens. On the mountain peak in the distance, a brief, brilliant flash of fire. The shape of something large flying up into the clouds. And she knows.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Her brother is gone.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She packs lightly and warmly, telling her oldest nephew she’s going on a foraging trip for herbs. She’ll be gone many days. Look out for the younger ones until she returns. She can’t bring herself to tell him yet. She’s the only one who knew what their father had gone to do.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> After a long journey, she reaches the hilltop. The earth is scorched, black, raw. Utterly barren. There is nothing of her brother here. She hadn’t really expected to find much, but the fact that there isn’t even a body…</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> There is one thing. His staff.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Devoid of its bones and feathers, it looks so formal, so out of place. Its metal gleams in the soft, cloud-diffused sunlight. The violet jewel at its center seems to burn with a fire of its own. But strange as it looks, it was still her brother’s.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She kneels down and gently takes it in her hands. The metal is warm, as it always is. Not hot, but just warm enough to feel…almost alive. She remembers what her brother told her, about it being a conduit for power. About its capacity to store and focus energy. She holds the staff close. Maybe, <em>maybe—</em>and maybe she only wants to believe it, but it feels true—part of this warmth is her brother now.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Ziard…”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She whispers a blessing, a word of remembrance, for his spirit. Then she stands. The staff twists in her hand, and she almost drops it in surprise. But as she watches, it folds in on itself, becoming more of a walking cane than a magical totem. Ready for the journey back to Elarion.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She looks out over the land. Elarion’s spires and rooftops glimmer in the distance. Had this been his last view? Gazing at the beautiful city that was his home? Or had he faced down the dragon instead, standing between Sol Regem and all those he loved and cherished? This was the price of dark magic. Sacrifice. But for the good of the city? For the good of every person in Elarion? For the good of humanity? It was a sacrifice worth making.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “If anything ever happens to me,” her brother had told her once, “and it might, <em>press on</em>. Pass on this knowledge. Humanity is better off <em>with</em> this than without. Not everyone will understand. But I know you do. If I’m not here, find the people who do understand. Carry on this legacy. And hand down this gift.” He’d let her hold the staff then, and she’d felt it. The warmth, the life pulsing just beneath the surface.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She begins her walk down the mountain. The wind picks up around her, tossing her cloak, her furs, in its gusts. She can’t tell if it’s trying to push her forward or hold her back. But it doesn’t matter what the wind wants. The wind will not shape humanity’s destiny.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> They’ll speak their words into the wind, violet-hued and charged with power, and shape their own.</span>
</p>
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